


Rule of Law

by rozodejanero



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crestwood, F/M, Ferelden (Dragon Age), I like obscure side characters and i cannot lie, Light Romance, Man on the run, POV Multiple, Sharing a Bed, Thriller, Venatori, bed bound, i am weak, lots of swears, minor non-linearity, reciprocal ass saving, side characters, the Inquisitor takes his sweet old time getting to Crestwood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:47:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27837070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rozodejanero/pseuds/rozodejanero
Summary: Jean-Marc Stoud is a wanted man.Pursued by a ruthless Warden-lieutenant and grievously wounded, he takes refuge in a Ferelden backwater. But this backwater has problems of it’s own; the undead lurk in every shadow while a bandit scourge grows ever stronger. To survive, Jean is forced to place his trust in a tenuous ally. But when his isolationist ideology begins to clash with the increasingly dire situation of the locals, Jean finds himself forced to chose between the cause that he serves and the people that cause purports to protect.
Relationships: Judith/Jean-Marc Stroud
Comments: 6
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy. So because DA:I was my first exposure to DA, i had Stroud as my default Warden option. This story grew out of an interest in the character, the Grey Warden schtick and the desire to plot and write a full length tale that is perhaps a little different from the typical DA fic (not that there's anything wrong with the typical DA fic)
> 
> I don't expect tons of readership but I hope anyone who reads enjoys :)

The good thing about fog, perhaps the only good thing about fog, was that it made him as hard to see as it did his enemies. Under normal circumstances, Jean-Marc would have preferred a good line of sight on what danger of the hour was threatening him. After all, it was much harder to land a blow on something you couldn't see, especially in the small hours of the morning. But, balls deep in the insipid Ferelden countryside, soaked through from a constant deluge of rain and estranged from his Order was not ‘normal’ circumstances. The fog might hamper his depth of vision, but at that moment it gifted Jean something he had not had for several weeks; an advantage.

The dwindling glow of a campfire seeped through the cloud. The narrow ravine he had been traveling through had ended, widening out into a small clearing but still with steep rock on either side. Edging forward, Jean took cover behind some small shrubs. They had set up their camp, just off the path, some 30 feet from where he crouched. He couldn’t make out much. All he could see was the fire and the outline of a cart. He could hear little, thanks to the whistle of the wind as it raced through the narrow cliffs. Jean had no intention of disturbing these people. He would have to make his way around them if he were to continue his way. But there was no way to tell if they felt in kind about him.

Northern Ferelden still had problems with lawlessness, even since King Theirin’s wide reaching reforms, and Jean was not about to let some backwater fools thwart the ground he’d worked too hard to claw back. It had taken him 2 days to flee across the Waking Sea from the Marches to the port at Highever. Krennick’s machinations had forced him to give the bastard a clumsy slip by backtracking east along the coastline. The extra 4 days of travel had taken him further from his goal, further from Hawke, and dwindled his supplies. His reward; the tiniest sliver of grace against a man who would sooner burn down an entire forest than waste time searching the trees. Jean was not, by nature, an arrogant man, but if Krennick hadn’t stopped him, neither was an inconveniently placed encampment.

He skirted his way around the edge of the camp, taking advantage of the darkness and the fog. The steep walls of the ravine extended round in a wide arc. He hugged the walls. As he reached a halfway point, there was a muffled yelp from the direction of the cart. Jean froze. He turned his head to see where the noise had come from. If it was a Mabari, that was trouble, Fereldans and their blighted dogs. But instead of a snarling beast, he locked eyes with an adolescent boy, not 10 feet from him, lying and gagged under the cart. The boy stared up at him with hope in his eyes. It was the kind of hope that did not bode well.

For a moment Jean stared at him. The fog had dissipated just a little, and Jean could now well make out the cart under which the youth was lying. Scattered around the flickering fire were the dark masses of sleeping men and swords. There was a groan and Jean spied the outline of a man on watch as he yawned, sitting on the far edge of the fire.

Bandits then.

He glanced up at the glow of the setting moon. Time was short. The boy didn’t look that worse for wear. There was bruising around his eyes and a little blood around the corner of his mouth. He seemed to Jean perfectly capable of making an escape, given a helpful nudge. Jean crept forward and pulled out a small knife from his belt. He placed it in the boy’s bound hands.

“Wait a while, then free yourself,” Jean whispered into his ear, “do not follow me.”

He made to move, but the boy wriggled and grunted as if trying to say something. Jean lunged forward to cover his mouth. He glanced over at the man on watch, but he was still yawning away.

“Be quiet!” Jean hissed. The boy stilled and fell silent. Slowly, and with a meaningful glare, Jean removed his hand. The boy stared at him urgently, and when Jean leaned back, he grunted again. With a silent sigh, Jean loosened his gag a little.

“Make it quiet and quick.”

“Take me with you!” the boy murmured through the fabric, “please!”

“No.”

The boy stared at him in disbelief. Jean avoided his gaze, instead glancing over to the bandit on watch.

“No? What? Please Ser Warden!” he implored, glancing at Jean’s armour. “Your accent, you’re not from here, but I know this land very well, you probably want to get to Crestwood yeah? I can help you!”

Jean paused, glancing back at the boy. Crestwood? How the hell had he gotten so far south? If what the boy said was true, his knowledge would be a significant help. But as a rule, Jean did not trust the word of prisoners, even those captured by bandits. Nor was he inclined toward an accomplice foolish enough to get himself captured once already.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, “I cannot help you further. You’d best wait for a suitable moment to free yourself.”

Before the boy could speak again Jean leaned forward and rebound his gag. He spluttered and grunted, and Jean thought briefly of knocking the fool out before there was a grumble from the other side of the cart.

“Cut it out little courier.” It said. “You’ll wake the whole camp.”

The sound of footsteps grew until the pair of boots attached to them stopped on the other end of the cart. Jean shook his head slowly at the bound boy, willing him not to make any more noise. Mercifully, and after a long, tense moment, the bandit hmphed in satisfaction and moved back to his spot by the fire.

Jean retreated from the cart.

The boy stared at him as he did. He scowled in that way that foolish children always do when you tell them they can’t do something. It seemed to Jean almost laughable when the boy began furiously working at the binds of his hands. This would be his reward. He cursed his own misguided sense of charity. The boy was making actual noise now. Jean needed to run, and quickly. He retreated from the camp, backing up against the steep rock and behind the thin shrubbery. The fog was thinner again. He could now make out the man on watch easily as he tramped his way back toward the cart. He was a wiry, grizzled sort, with his fair share of facial scar. The man was too distracted by the inept attempt at escape taking place under the cart to make him out among the shrubbery.

“Oi, cut it out!” the man snapped in a hushed tone. “Raynor’s gonna be pissed off at both of us if you wake him up. You want to be target practice boy?”

There was a muffled yelp, then a grunt of surprise and a crash. Jean watched in anguish as the bandit slipped backwards and into the fire, coals exploding from the force of his body. Yells and cries of confusion erupted from the bodies around the fire as they jolted from their sleep, the hot coals spilling into their bedrolls. The bound boy, no longer bound, lurched out from under the cart, making a beeline for Jean. Jean grit his teeth in anger. Abandoning any hope of stealth, he made a dash around the camp.

“The kid’s escaping!”

“What?”

“He’s got an accomplice!”

Paying no mind to anyone except himself, Jean reached the other side of the path and sprinted down the rest of the ravine. After a minute it opened onto a small lake with a ruined parapet in the middle. The sky was still dark, and the fog had not yet lifted, but his view was clearer than it had been in the ravine. Jean pulled up for a moment and glanced around. There was a small bridge to the left.

Before he could take a step, something crashed into him from behind. He stumbled and fell into the shallows of the lake. A body fell onto him. The boy yelped as he crashed into the water.

“Get off me!” Jean snarled, pushing the boy off him. He stood and shook himself off. But it had begun to rain. The wind was picking up, blowing away the fog in the valley. Jean splashed through the shallows and over to the bridge.

“Don’t leave me!” The boy cried. Jean could hear him scramble to follow him.

“They’re going to kill me, they said! Take me back to Caer Bronach and kill me!”

“I’m going kill you after that stupidity back there,” snapped Jean. He pivoted, shoving the boy again. He stumbled backward, startled. Behind him, the shapes of the bandits emerged from the fog of the ravine. “I’m not your saviour boy, save yourself.”

“But you’re a Warden!”

Jean stared at him for a moment. Warden indeed. The boy did not understand what was at stake if Jean or the information he’d gathered could not reach the right people. He grasped a hand to the precious leather pack slung over his shoulder. There was a shout. Jean glanced over the boy’s shoulder again. The bandits were drawing closer, swords in hand.

“Do not follow me.”

He turned and ran across the bridge. The sounds of pounding footsteps followed him. The boy or the bandits, it no longer mattered. He needed to get away from them all.

He reached the other side. A sickly green glow emanated from the fog to his left.

A fade rift. It was perhaps a good 100 feet to the west.

Struck by a sudden idea, Jean veered toward it. If he could set it off, it could provide enough of a distraction for him to escape. He had encountered them before. Sometimes passing close by was enough to trigger a cascade of demons to appear from the fade and attack the nearest living creature. As far as distractions went it was a good one, if not ruthless. It might catch the boy. But the boy was the reason Jean was in this mess. If he had not followed Jean, like he’d told him not to, he’d be fine. The weight of the knowledge on his shoulders-the weight of the bag around his chest-overshadowed any guilt Jean felt at this potential outcome.

No boy was worth the fate of the Order.

He surged forward. Weaving over the rocky terrain, the rift came ever closer. Jean willed it to spring into action, to not let the diversion be in vain. Suddenly, a sharp pain struck him in his left shoulder. A sudden impact propelled him forward. He stumbled, almost falling, but he regained his balance. He clutched at his shoulder. It took a half a second for Jean to realize that an arrow had split through his mail and buried itself deep into his left shoulder. Pain blossomed from the wound, like caustic lightening. He glanced behind him. Where was the archer? On the bridge, a young, sandy-haired man was reaching for another arrow. There was a cruel smirk on his face.

Jean angled his run. His heart pumped in his throat. It had been a lucky shot, nothing vital, but he couldn’t afford to push his luck.

Another arrow whizzed past him, nicking the skin on his neck.

For a moment Jean felt blessed relief, but then he realized, in alarm, that the arrow had split right through the middle of the green crack.

The rift ahead burst into life.

Green lightening-like tendrils exploded around him. It was too early, too soon. He needed to get the blighted thing between him and the bandits. He could not, under any circumstances, attract the ire of the demons too.

One tendril shot toward his chest. He jumped out of the way, rolling to one side. An unholy chorus of screeching pierced the air. From the earth monstrous shapes of the demons formed.

From a crouch, Jean looked around furiously. Demons were forming all round him, but there was a gap to the left. A steep cliff, covered in stones but climbable, offered him a potential escape. If he was quick, he might slip by. If he was smart, the demons would attack the bandits first. If he was lucky, the archer would be too distracted in the chaos to take another clear shot at him.

Jean didn’t trust his luck.

He slipped his hand into his pouch and pulled out an Antivan Fire grenade. It was the last of his coveted stock. Without a second thought he turned, lined up his trajectory and hurled at the bridge. Without waiting, he made a run for the slope. There was a piercing screech as the glass grenade shattered on the cobble and light erupted behind him. Screams filled the air and the demons, like moths to a flame, descended on the chaos. Jean didn’t look, he didn’t care to. Instead he ran, scrambling up the base of the slope, and climbed. The way was slippery, perilous. His feet struggled to find purchase. But he could not stop. The monstrous roars of the demons echoed across the valley, cutting through the howling wind and the rain.

Something grasped at his leg. Jean jerked and turned to see what was assailing him. Somehow, Maker knows how, the boy was scrambling up after him, both still alive and following him. He was tenacious, Jean would give him that.

“Let go of me!” Jean yelled over the sounds of carnage.

The boy shook his head.

“I’ll slip!”

“If you don’t let me go, we’ll both slip!”

Jean tried to kick out at the fool, tried to dislodge the boy from his leg, but the boy panicked. He grasped for a handhold. His hands clutched at the pack slung around Jean’s shoulder. Jean jerked backward at the sudden weight. Pain erupted from his shoulder as the strap strained against the shaft of the arrow still protruding from his flesh.

Involuntarily, his arm jerked backward, and he felt, almost as if in slow motion, the strap slip down his arm. For a moment Jean thought it had caught on the edge of his bracer. But then, under the weight of the boy, it slid down to the end of his hand and flew into the air.

The boy, now devoid of his lifeline, scrambled for purchase. He grasped at Jean’s legs as he fell backward.

Jean lost his hold on the stone. All at once, limbs and armour tangled together as he and the boy slid back down the slope, back toward the sickly green light.

They crashed into the stones at the base. Jean felt his knees twist as odd angles, slamming into the stones. His shoulder exploded into pain once again as the boy landed unceremoniously onto it at the base of the slope. He let out an involuntary cry of pain, and blackness encroached at the edges of his vision. Blinking, he pushed the sensation to the back of his focus. He took a deep breath, counting each rib as it expanded. When the sensation had finally receded, he turned himself into a crouch and whipped his head around to find the source of his ire. To his right, the boy was stumbling to his feet. Jean lurched forward, blinded by rage. He grasped the boy by his shirt. The boy let out a cry of pain as Jean slammed him into the dirt.

“I should have left you to die!” Jean spat, murderous anger coursing through his veins. He gripped harder at the boy, pushing him further into the mud.

The boy looked up at him, fear in his eyes. He let out a pathetic whimper. Jean’s chest heaved. He let out an angry sigh and released him.

“Try me again and I will kill you.” He snarled, getting to his feet unsteadily. Dull pain radiated from his knees with every step. He glanced around at where his pack had fallen. Dismay flooded him as he spotted it mere feet away from the centre of the rift, surrounded by at least 3 demons and twice as many bandits. The battle still raged, but the bandits were losing. The fire of his grenade still burned, covering the bridge. There was no sign of the archer.

The pack would be impossible to retrieve like this.

Jean reached across his chest and snapped off the feathered shaft. The movement drew a pain grunt from his chest, but he no longer cared. He threw the shaft to the ground with more force than was necessary and applied pressure to his shoulder to stem the bleeding. The last thing he needed to gift Krennick was a blood trail. With a last glance at the pack, Jean grit his teeth. He would have to return later. He would have to sacrifice precious time and risk capture. All because of his own stupid charity.

He looked around for an escape. His plan to use the bandits as a distraction had worked. The demons were taking no interest in him or the boy. He turned his head in time to see the boy scurry across the mud and cower behind a small stone wall. Finally, a sensible decision. Jean followed him and stumbled his way past the wall. He paused at the now telltale whimper of the youth. Jean looked down. The boy was scowling up at him, clutching an arm that Jean could now see was twisted at an odd angle.

“Thanks for nothing Ser Jerk.”

“What direction is Crestwood?”

The boy scowled at him, remaining tight lipped.

Jean grit his teeth. He pulled out his sword and bared it at the boy’s throat. There was just the slightest satisfaction in the fear that entered the boy’s eyes.

“Do not test me.”

The boy’s lip quivered, the satisfaction dissolved and fortunately, for both him and Jean, he pointed a shaky finger north. He opened his mouth again, but Jean did not wait for the reply. Without glancing back, he began trudging toward Crestwood.

After he was sure that the night and the fog had covered his passage, Jean slipped onto a path heading west. It was small, barely legible in the rain. But that was the good thing about rain; it hid tracks. This ‘Crestwood’ was a laughably terrible idea. He needed to stay away from as many people as possible. The boy would probably come to nothing. He might follow him, he might not, but no one could know where he was or where he was heading. No one alive was beyond Krennick’s interrogation, and Jean had not yet stooped so low as to resort to cold-blooded murder to cover his tracks. The bandits had been a necessary evil, but the boy? Stupid he may have been, but he was not worth the effort, nor the guilt. Jean should have never engaged with him. It was his own fault. There was guilt now, that he had not treated him better. Jean had panicked. He should not have panicked.

He shuffled along. His legs ached from the fall; his bruises grew as the adrenalin of the battle wore off. His knees felt swollen. The pain in his shoulder grew louder, vying for his attention. The rain masked the sounds of the rocky landscape around him. It felt like all he could sense was the pain. It was like nothing else. Maker, he was getting old if a blighted arrow and a fall were causing such grief. Still, he shuffled and limped until, exhausted and unable to ignore the pain any longer, he slumped down on a rock.

Just for a moment.

He tried to raise his arm. The pain prevented him from going much higher than the edge of his pectoral muscle. Though it had pierced clean through, he dared not remove the head, not yet. He could feel it poking out at the back, but he would need somewhere clean, or at least not covered in mud, where he could bleed out safely. It had been days since he had seen any kind of civilization, but perhaps, if he could find an abandoned house, or some ruins? He sighed. Who was he kidding in this shithole; it was dust or damp, or it was nothing. Whatever he could find, he would have to make do. He had one potion left. It would take the edge off. He reached into his pouch with his right hand and rifled around for the vial.

His fingers stung and he ripped his hand back. A shard of glass stuck out of his index finger.

He sat for a moment, staring at his bleeding hand, watching the deep purple of the potion, mix like ink with the rain and his crimson lifeblood. He watched as the rain washed away the mixture and he closed his eyes. The rain pattered over him. His body ached, his pains beating like drums in the Deep Roads. The whispers of the Calling, chattering incessantly in the back of his mind. And he wished, just for a moment, that he had never taken his Joining.

He pushed the moment away.

He sighed deeply, heaved himself onto his feet and continued into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

_Ansburg, The Free Marches. Two weeks prior_

Jean had met Warden Commander Clarel De Chanson the day after his family was massacred. She had not been Warden Commander then, but she had approached him in the training yard, her head shaved, her dark eyes determined and asked in a way that he could not possibly refuse, to join her Order.

In a way, he had always resented her for that. His life would have been so much simpler had he died avenging his family. And yet, how you resent someone for granting you a new life? A life that had been and was, more meaningful than being a Chevalier could have ever been. He had paid for it in complications of course, and the unending pain of his loss. But at time had lengthened, he had gotten better at dealing with the former. The latter had dulled until one day he realized he had gone an entire week without thinking of his mother or sister or brother.

That had hurt, but over time it had hurt less.

He had seen Clarel little after his first year. He had taken his joining, stewed in his grief and generally been a moody little shit for the first few months. Then he had leveled out and requested a transfer to Ansburg. He had needed to remove himself from Orlais. It was still too painful, too raw and despite his families death his name held some influence. The Wardens were already mythic, mistrusted by some, and his name could be a weapon in the wrong hands. Clarel had understood. She had always seemed to understand. She had recognized his skill as a swordsman, encouraged him to help others. She had only been 6 years his senior but she had seemed so wise then. When his transfer had finally been approved they remained in contact via raven for the 20 years that had followed.

He had considered them friends.

It had been raining, the day that she had told him of her insane plan to get them all killed.

“It is so good to see you old friend,” she said, grasping his hand firmly, her dark eyes smiling up at him.

“And I you,” he replied.

The visitation of the Orlesian Warden Commander was a fairly auspicious event for the small keep at Ansburg. Clarel had thus far kept him in the dark as to the exact reason for her visit, but he had his suspicions. There had been talk that the Warden leaders were gathering allies and hatching plans to combat the collective Calling they had all been hearing. Every man and woman in the Order had been hearing the whispers, feeling the omens. Suspicions plagued the regiments fueled further by the fact that no one had gotten a decent nights sleep in months.

Jean had kept himself in the loop, as befitted his responsibilities as Senior Warden, but existing troubles did not disappear when the new ones reared their ugly heads. Darkspawn didn’t take time off and nightmares were not new. The investigations he had been leading into the prison break had continued to plagued his mind. He needed to get to the bottom of it.

So, when Clarel had sent a raven informing him that she would be at Ansburg withing the week, he had only the space of mine to ask why. She had simply said that it was something that needed to be explained in person.

“It’s not much,” he said, leading her into his small office. It was a spartan space, a simple desk, some chairs, a bookshelf riddled with loose papers that needed to be organised, “but it is private.”

Clarel was looking around, she seemed amused.

“You weren’t joking about the space,” she said, looking back at him, “but I suppose it fits the man.”

“You were expecting extravagance?”

“No, but I was expecting maybe a trophy or two,” she said, toying with a wooden shelf, observing his book titles with interest.

“And what use would I have for trophies?” he said, “Darkspawn don’t look good mounted on the wall.”

Clarel laughed, a warm thing that put him at ease.

“I’m not suggesting you stuff a Genlock and stick it in the corner,” she said with amusement, “but you know, something other than whatever this mess is.”

She waved a hand over the collection of papers he had tacked up on the bookcase. They were notes, old letters, pages from books; things that he had collected regarding the events at Corypheus prison. The ancient Darkspawn had been killed but Janeka had disappeared to Maker knows where and Hawke seemed to have told him everything she knew. Still, there was just something about the whole mess that he couldn’t seem to let go. It was unlike him to display his work quite so erratically, frankly he was a little embarrassed, but he had wanted it laid out in front of him. Lyria had indulged him but Clarel looked at him like he was insane.

“What would I have instead?” he asked.

Clarel shrugged.

“A painting might be nice.”

He moved around the desk and gestured for her to sit in the chair opposite. She obliged him.

“And what would I get painted?

“A painting of me perhaps,” she said her tone as dry as it have ever been, but there was amusement in her eyes, “or you could retrieve some of the works from your family’s vault?”

Jean cleared his throat, discomforted at the mention of his ancestral possessions. He placed a hand on the back of his chair.

“I gave them away.”

Clarel blinked at him, stunned.

“You gave them away?” she repeated, “when? To who?”

He was not surprised by her shock. He hadn’t told her and he told her most things, even if it was long after the fact. But he had know she would have disapproved, maybe even intervened. She could meddle like that sometimes.

“To my cousins, a year ago.”

“A year ago,” Clarel breathed, “Maker Jean, why?”

“I didn’t need any of it. I could hardly sell it,” he said with a shrug. It had been time. He was almost 40 years old and would almost certainly be dead within the next decade, probably less. “Carlotta seemed pleased in any case, it should have been done long ago.”

Clarel stared at him. She looked a little hurt perhaps that he had declined to inform her, but mostly bemused. Clarel understood a great deal about him, but there were some things on which she never seemed to grasp. Of noble blood he might have been, but he had no love for ostentation or for that matter, clutter. He glanced over again at the muddle of papers strung up against the bookshelf. Unfinished business, really, that was what bothered him. He retrived two mugs from the side table and poured Clarel some water.

“Now,” he said, “Are you going to finally tell me why you have come all this way to see me in person, or shall we discuss the decor some more?”

Clarel narrowed her eyes at his pointed change of subject. She took the mug from his hands and sat back in her chair.

“Down to business, of course,” she said, as if she had not traveled thousands of miles to see him for this specific purpose. “As I said in my letter, I believe have a plan to stop this Calling. I understand your Commander has cautioned against rash action in the west but I strongly feel a united front in Orlais is the best method of tackling this,” she paused, “well I’ll call it what it is Jean, the potential eradication of our Order.”

Jean examined Clarel over the desk, she looked as determined as she had been the day they met. Whether intentional or not, it tugged at his emotions. But he had heard rumors of her plan and neither those, nor the fact that Clarel thought it necessary to time her visit to coincide with his Commander being currently Maker knows where in the Deep Roads did not sit well with him. Timing had never been good amongst the leadership, but it all seemed a little too intentional for his comfort.

“You have yet to tell me exactly what this plan even involves,” he reminded her, “you cannot expect me to endorse anything without understanding what it is I am endorsing to begin with.”

Clarel nodded slowly, she placed her mug onto the desk.

“Of course,” she agreed, but she didn’t look entirely comfortable. Whether it was by virtue of his request or what she was thinking, he did not know, but it was plainly obvious that whatever her plan was, she was worried he would not approve.

She cleared her throat.

“I have been in contact with a Tevinter Magister, he believes that if we lead a early offensive into the Deep Roads, we can destroy the Old Gods before they wake.”

She had been right to assume he would not approve.

“That is insane.”

Clarel narrowed her eyes at him.

“I knew you would say that,” she said, mouth pinched in annoyance, “need I remind you, the fate of the Order is at state?”

“Need I remind you, we hardly have the numbers to hold off surface raids in Sundermount, let alone launch an offensive on the Old Gods. Do you truly believe, even with a united south, even with the Marchers, that we would have anywhere near the necessary force? This Magister is proffering idiocy.”

He watched as she shifted in her chair, suspicion turning to a hunch in his mind. Magisters, it was always the Tevene and their arrogance that concocted such schemes.

“Do not tell me blood magic is involved Clarel,” he said, “I beg of you.”

There was silence between them. Clarel did not break eye contact, she merely sniffed.

“Erimond had outlined the ritual to me, it will involve the binding of demons, but it is effective and it would provide the power and the numbers we need, twice over.”

“I see,” he said, disappointed. He had always know Clarel was less hung up about magical convention than the institutional mage. It made perfect sense within the context of the Order and he would not have ordinarily cared. Magic was a tool like a sword. But blood magic on such a scale as to attempt to destroy the Old Gods? And this talk of demonic binding? Well, Clarel was either a madman or a fool and he didn’t know which was worse.

He watched as her fingers clutched the edges of her water cup.

Or she was desperate, like they all were. Perhaps desperate enough to fall for the whispering lies of a Maleficar? It was a possibility he would have not thought possible for Clarel.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, threads begin to form. He thought of Corephyus, once a priest of the Old Gods himself. It all seemed so close to clarity, as if if only Clarel would say the right word and he would understand some of what madness was overcoming them all. It had to be connected, it was always connected.

He sighed and felt exhausted to his very core. The Calling had long been tugging at the edges of his consciousness, now it was a symphony in his head, dragging him further into darkness. But he was not there yet and neither should Clarel have been.

“I do not think we need subjugate ourselves to Tevene blood magic in order to survive this,” he said, “As I have indicated to you before; I do not think the suddenness of it is so straightforward, it feels connected. Rotten.”

Clarel let out a laugh.  
“Rotten!” she cried incredulously, “of course it’s rotten Jean, it’s Darkspawn trickery.”

He frowned and placed his mug back onto the table.

“You know that is not what I mean,” he said leaning forward in his chair, “you do not seriously expect that all the madness that is happening in the world is all happening at the same time because of mere coincidence?”

Clarel sighed and stood up from her seat. She walked over to the window and looked out across the raining fields outside the walls of the keep.

“I am not a conspiratorial as you if that’s what you are implying,” she said, “Mad things happen all the time, they are not always connected. But I do know that anything the involves the Calling spells doom if we do not address it head on.”

She turned back to him.

“I know it sounds dangerous, evil even. That is why I wished to explain all this to you in person because I feel I owe you that, as your friend. Erimond has shown me that it works,” she said, then hesitated for half a second, “there is the cost, like with all things, but I believe it is necessary.”

“You believe? Or you are simply willing to sacrifice others for to possibility?”

Clarel scowled at him.

“I would not ask my men to do something I was not willing to do.”

“What is the cost Clarel?”

Clarel pursed her lips for a moment.

“In death, sacrifice,” she recited and Jean’s heart sank. Of course this Tevene scheme would involve human sacrifice.

“You would knowingly kill our own for an unknown chance of success?”

“I am killing no one,” she snapped, “any choice we make will cost the lives of our friends, our kin, but I would choose to be in control of that cost. If the men are willing, if they consent, I see no issue. This is what they signed up for.”

Jean stared at her. He was not opposed to the sentiment that being a Warden require sacrifice, often the ultimate sacrifice. But he refused to believe that Clarel thought such sacrifice should be based on such an objectively questionable plot. The idea was simply flawed in its basic premise; that they could march past all the Darkspawn strongholds and up to the Old Gods was patently absurd, demon binding or no. Indeed, as he looked into her eyes he saw a seed of doubt. Whoever this Magister was, he was doing a very good job of convincing Clarel this was the right thing to do.

“Who is Erimond?” he asked. “Where has he come from?”

Clarel turned back to the window, looking out at something he could not see. He could hear the clatter of swords below in the courtyard where his recruits were practicing their forms. Clarel said nothing, she seemed reluctant to tell him. Perhaps because deep down she had to know he would never endorse this plan. Perhaps because this Erimond was as objectively questionable a man as Jean already believed him to be.

“Lord Livius Erimond. He is a magister,” she said finally, “he approached me shortly after the Calling began with an offer of alliance.”

She turned to face him.

“I realize how it sounds Jean but I believe what he says is true, he has show me. And I believe that this is the right thing to do. What other options do we have? If the Order dies, Thedas dies, would that be our legacy?”

Jean considered this. Indeed, what other options did they have? The Calling had not lessened and it was becoming harder and harder to reassure the men. But there was still a seed of doubt in the back of his mind. He wondered what it was, exactly, that motivated Lord Erimond.

“I bound to the edict of my Commander,” he said after a moment. It was a coward’s deflection, but one that was nonetheless true. He would not act without Lyria’s assent. More than this, he valued her counsel. His personal connection to Clarel muddied his judgment, and he was sure Clarel herself knew this. It was probably why she had come while Lyria was otherwise occupied with other matters. “She returns before the end of the week, we will discuss it further then.”

Clarel narrowed her eyes at him.

“Do not hide behind Commander Feynlasan,” she said, “I am asking your assistance because I want you on my side Jean.”

“Side?”

Clarel’s jaw clenched as if she had not meant to let the word slip. Jean was reminded of Lyria’s own hard look at his offhand comment that Clarel had been sending him more letters as of late. Before she had left she had said something to him that he hadn’t understood at the time; “Stay true Jean.” There had been trust there. An unspoken plea. A plea he now understood.

Anger filled his chest at the realization that two of his confidants had been hiding things from him. He found he was angry at himself for not realizing it, and for being too stupid to not understand why any of this was happening. He had thought he had left the politics behind in Orlais. He should never have been so naive.

Clarel folded her arms over her chest.

“Lyria is aware of my plan and my position,” she confirmed, “she does not approve.”

Jean’s blood turned to ice. Such a declaration implied one one thing. He stared at her.

“You would ask me to mutiny against Lyria.”

Clarel barely batted an eye. She was now resolute and hard; a true Warden Commander of Orlais.

“I am not asking you to do anything Jean,” she said, “I am asking for sense.”

It was as infuriating a veiled attempt at deflecting her true intentions as anything else she had said. He stood up from his chair.

“Do not play the Game with me Clarel,” he snapped, anger chasing the ice out of his veins. “If you are to ask me to betray my Commander, my honor, you will at least speak plainly about it!”

“Your honor,” Clarel snapped, her eyes fluttering,” you and your Blighted honor Jean! You are not a Chevalier! You are a Warden, you are beholden to one thing and one thing only and that is destroying the Blight. This is our chance, if you refuse me then we have nothing further to bind us.”

He stared at her.

“So this is how it is to be.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Jean clenched and unclenched his fists.

“And what will become of me if I refuse?”

Clarel let out a breath. She shrugged, it appeared offhand, but her movement was too stiff to be entirely casual.

“I do not know,” she lied, “but I will grant you the luxury of contemplation. Think on it Jean, think of what Thedas you wish to see prevail; one left to ruin by inaction, or one free from the Blight forever.”

She nodded and turned to leave. She paused as she approached the door, hand resting on the latch. She inclined her head back toward him.

“Do not let this be what tears us apart.”

Jean watched her go, the door creaking as she closed it behind her. That she would attempt to manipulate him so obviously, with such disregard- he felt his chest constrict in a way that spoke of the same grief he had felt when he had hear of his family’s murder, the same rage.

He thought of them. He would have burned the world to the ground to see them avenged, Clarel had stopped him. Now she was who had been murdered; transformed into a creature of madness, and he felt the same rage. Clarel would not stop him this time.

Whoever was behind this, Magister or no, would pay for the games they were trying to play.

* * *

  
_Crestwood_

The Ferelden rain belted down upon him as he stumbled the way up a hill. He had been trudging south west for the better part of an hour, but he had not been making good time. He had had to stop several times to catch his breath. It was an absurd experience, and one that he was troubled by. He was feeling unnaturally put upon with exhaustion. It was as if every muscle in his body was crying out for a reprieve and they refused to work as they should until he gave it to them. He had pushed his body to it’s limits before. The taint in his veins that usually called to him like a deadly siren was a boon in these situations, allowing him to push himself past the limits of the normal man. But he had never felt it like this. It was almost as if it were no longer there.

He wondered if he had pushed himself too far this time. No matter how hard he willed it, he could just not get his legs to move quicker. His shoulder throbbed especially. The sensation of the arrow head grating against his scapula felt magnified three times over with each new movement. He needed to remove it before it festered. He wondered if it had been poisoned. But it felt like no poison he had ever experienced. All he wanted to do was drop to the ground and float off into the fade for a few hours but he couldn’t. He did not have that luxury.

He needed to keep going. He needed to get out of this Maker-forsaken rain.

The top of the hill approached. The moon was rising in the north-east, casting the landscape in it’s dull cool light. Ahead of him, a dark, angular shape became silhouetted against the night sky.

His heart quickened in excitement; a chimney, a house perhaps.

He drove himself forward, each step an agonizing battle of his will versus his body, until the path grew into a small yard. It was framed by a crumbling cobble wall, and hosted a few patches of garden and a well. Situated on the far end, in the shadow of another small hill was a small wooden hut. The windows were dark befitting the time of day. But if it was unoccupied, abandoned perhaps, well that would be a truly unexpected blessing.

He edged his way toward the building to get a peek in through the slatted window. However, mere feet from the front door and without warning, a loud chorus of avian screeching began. The sudden noise jarred his consciousness. He froze, looking around to see where it was coming from. Movement caught his eye; there was a small awning attached to the side of the hut. Built within he could see a large cage, filled flapping and screeching creatures. They continued even after he stopped. He tempered down the panic spreading through his veins. The exhaustion made it hard to think quickly. The screeching would alert anyone inside to his presence, probably the desired effect.

He waited for a moment.

More than anything he wanted to calm the creatures, but he dared not say anything for fear of inciting them into further chorus. But it became apparent that he need not have worried; nothing happened. No lamp turned on and there was no movement. Still unwilling to leave anything to chance he edged forward to peer through the wooden slats on the window. A single empty room greeted him. The house was unoccupied. He let out a breath and thanked the Maker for perhaps the first bit of real luck he had had at last. It was not enough to help will his body into quicker action, but it would do.

The birds were still making noise, but they had dulled to chirping. Something about the sound tugged at his mind. Raven, it sounded like a raven, he realized slowly. He made his way toward the awning. The cage was built to take up almost the entire space. It was crafted from thin, woven switches of wood. It looked well made. It stood 7 feet tall; a veritable palace for a bird. And here it was, attached to the side of this dingy looking hut in the middle of Maker knows where. He felt confident then, that while the house appeared empty now, it would not be for long. No person put half as much work into a feature like this and then left it, especially with live animals locked within. Not unless they were a particular sort of scumbag. Indeed, as he peered into it, he noted that the occupants of the cage did not appear neglected. There were several parrots and a large jay and as he had suspected, a large, healthy looking messenger raven. It watched him with it’s dark, beady eyes.

He felt at his inner pouch, tucked beneath his tasset. He had some binds left. If this raven was intelligent enough he could get a message to Skyhold, to Marian. He could let her know where he was. He had to move on as quickly as possible, but if Marian had some idea of where he was, maybe she would come to help him.

Jean looked into the darkly intelligent eyes of the raven. It looked like it was willing to be bound by him about as much as it was willing to fly him to Skyhold itself. He reached into his pack and broke off a fingernail sized piece of the stale cheese he had stolen from a farm several days ago. He unlatched the small gate on the side of the cage and slowly stuck his good arm though. Gently, he shooed away the other birds as they tried their luck with the morsel, but Jean only had eyes for the raven.

It was slow going, and his arm ached from simply holding it steady, but after a few minutes of patience, the creature edged forward until it was in reach of his hand. He grunted as it snatched the cheese from his fingers, gobbling it down. Jean retrieved another piece and offered it. With less reticence this time, the raven snatched the food, and after a few more offerings, the raven appeared to have given up all its misgivings of him. When he reached his hand back out of the cage, it hopped up on to the edge of the open door and stared up at him expectantly. Jean couldn’t help but laugh.

“I will give you some more soon,” he promised before shooing it back inside and closing the small gate. Despite everything, the childlike nature of animals improved his mood, just a little.

As quickly as it had lightened however, did he then remember that all his writing materials had been in his other satchel. He frowned. It wouldn’t be unusual for a peasant to have a quill and a bit of paper. Would it? He was unsure. He limped his way round the hut and tested the front door. It was unlocked and he crept inside.

A single room greeted him. It had a fire place at one end and a bed at the other, the door in the middle. The bed was separated from the rest of the room by a small dividing wall. The room was lightly cluttered but not untidy. There were shelves of bottles, several empty cauldrons, all manner of potion brewing supplies. An alchemist perhaps, he wasn’t sure he really cared at this point.

He spied a desk next to the bed and opened a draw. Inside was a quill and some scraps of parchment. Suspicion tugged at his mind. It all seemed a little too easy. But he had come to expect the worse, perhaps he was finally getting a reprieve.

He pulled out a paper and quill and scratched a note:

_Hawke. Crestwood, injured but heading west. Stroud._

His handwriting was wobbly and bled in a manner that his mother would have chided him for. He flexed his hand and shook his head. It was legible, that was enough. He rolled the note into a small cylinder and returned to the cage outside. The raven fluttered over to him as he approached. It squawked.

“In time, little one.”

From his pouch he pulled a location bind and another piece of cheese. The bind had been enchanted by Lyria herself. An undiscerning laymen would look at it and see a small piece of paper with strange markings. But if one was to speak the correct words, mage or no, the glyth would activate and whatever being the paper was attached to would be compelled to seek the location inscribed. They had been long used among the Wardens as a quick and easy alternative to the troublesome logistics of training ravens. Overused they could be dangerous to the being to which they were bound, but he only needed to send a single message. The raven was easily distracted with more cheese. He wrapped the bind around its leg and tied the note along with it.

“Lasa ghilan.”

There was a small flash of light as the glyph activated, then disappeared. The Raven straighted, flapped its wings and hopped onto his arm from the cage. It gave one last squawk before leaping off his bracer and disappearing into the inky darkness of the early morning sky.

He let out a heavy sigh. He was in no doubt that the raven would make it to Skyhold, and from there the Inquisition’s spy network would be able to deliver it to Hawke. But what to do in the meantime? He certainly wasn’t going to wait around.

And yet.

He glanced back at the open door of the house. What was a few hours in a dry bed? He needed to rest, he needed to fix his shoulder. His eyes felt puffy and itched from a lack of sleep. His body was falling apart from the exertion. Without much more thought he dragged himself back into to the room and latched the door shut. He began tearing away at his armor until he was left standing in his undershirt and breeches. He plopped down on the edge of the bed and reached for the basket of clean linens sitting near the headboard.

Dresses and feminine underthings, how strange. He almost wondered why a woman was living out here in the middle of nowhere, but then he tried reaching around his shoulder to pull out the arrow head and an all encompassing sensation of pain enveloped him. It proved an impossible task. He simply was not able to get a grip on the arrowhead. He breathed deeply for a few moments and grit his teeth again before pushing a gloved finger into the arrow wound. The tip of his finger connected with the broken off shaft of the arrow and it began to slide backward. Darkness encroached on the edges of his vision- a darkness that even deep breathing couldn’t subside. Vaguely, somewhere far away, he heard the arrowhead clatter from the bed to the cobble floor of the hut. Warm life blood began to trickle down his back, soaking into his shirt and the bed beneath him. He bunched up a pile of the linens on the bed and lay his shoulder down upon them. The pressure from his body stemmed the flow a little. He tried reaching up with his good hand to press some onto the front but his body was unwilling to cooperate. His hand seemed to forget what it was meant to do half way between and simply dropped onto his chest. Slowly, as if he were sinking to the bottom of a lake, his vision went dark until there was no more pain, only the Fade.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every good story needs a bad guy

There were few things more satisfying than the destruction of someone else’s good plan, and with the fortnight Alys had been having, it was refreshing to take a moment to revel in his victories. Because, despite the many unanswered questions, this was a victory.

Alys observed the scene before him and smiled. Stroud had been busy.

The bodies of men - bandits, he assumed, based on their armaments and varying degrees of grizzledness - were dotted across the muddy ground, contorted and broken from battle. Demonic viscera were strewn about the place. The cretins had put up somewhat of a fight, but it had not been enough.

With his boot, Alys prodded the charred body of a man slumped against the stone bridge. The body slid and collapsed onto one side, revealing a half-burned face. What could have been blond hair was matted gruesomely to the raw flesh of his cheek. Alys grimaced. Rage demons.

Well, that would explain the faint scent of charred flesh hanging in the air as they had approached and the scorch marks along the ground. What it couldn’t explain was why Stroud had been foolish enough to attract the ire of common bandits. Why he had resorted to a fade rift to cover his tracks. It had not taken a genius to figure out that the camp they had found further up the valley had been abandoned quickly- presumably in pursuit of Stroud-but it was a little insulting really.

He kicked at the charred body, earning himself a look from both of his companions. He ignored them. How had these bandits gotten so close to what he had been chasing for weeks? What’s more, despite their unfathomably good fortune in stumbling upon Stroud in the first place, they had been unable to capitalize on it for his advantage. Not, of course, that Alys wanted anyone else to end Stroud’s life except himself. But it would have been gratifying to see the great Jean-Marc Stroud, finest swordsman in the Order, Senior Warden of the Free-Marches, brought to his knees by a bunch of half-rate scumbags.

The rift hung in the air some 30 feet from him. Its energy crackled languidly. The hairs on Alys’ arm stood on end. He shivered, his own energy crackling slightly at the ends of his fingertips.

“Dormant,” observed Helena from his right. “It must have happened recently. Who knows when it will reopen.”

Alys glanced at her. The grey-haired elf was watching the green crack, expressionless as always.

“Don’t get too close,” warned Rickon from behind them.

“It’s dormant,” repeated Helena over her shoulder.

“Yes, and who knows when it will reopen,” parroted Rickon, coming up and stopping by his left shoulder.

Alys rolled his eyes. Imperious fool. He turned to observe the burly warrior. Tall, muscular; typical swordsman. Alys had never imagined anyone could have less of a sense of humour than Stroud. Then he had met Rickon. It was no wonder they had been friends. They had probably spent most of their time frowning at each other and comparing facial hair.

Alys patted him on the shoulder and there was great satisfaction at how Rickon tensed ever so slightly under his hand.

“Now then,” he said, “I think we at least have time enough to search the area.”

“Search it for what?”

“For Stroud,” he said, gesturing to the scene. “This has him written all over it.”

Alys could feel Rickon’s eyes on him as he walked over to one of the bodies.

“You think Jean did this?” he said, “Krennick?”

He turned back to face Rickon.

“You think these men just abandoned their camp in the middle of the night and walked right into the fade rift?”

Rickon stared at him blankly.

Alys rolled his eyes, of course he would have to spell it out for the idiot.

“For whatever reason Stroud attracted their attention and then had to flee.” He gestured to the scene around them. “You think he could take on 8 men on his own?”

Rickon raised an eyebrow.

Alys could feel his heckles begin to rise. He took a breath.

“After 2 weeks on the run, with little to no rest,” he said, “Maker, Rickon, he was a Senior Warden not a blighted Old God, reel it in why don’t you.”

“I just think that it’s a bit of a reach,” said Rickon with a half-hearted shrug. “It’s not like we have proof, and I know Jean, he’s not stupid enough to tip off a bunch of bandits. Besides, why would he be so far south?”

“It’s not a reach,” snapped Alys. “You heard what that farmer said, and Helena’s tracking is second to none.”

He glanced over at the woman. She was peering at the scorch marks surrounding the bridge.

“I think he used Antivan Fire on them, these scorch marks are not demon fire. The charcoal is viscous,” she ran a finger along the ground and held it up to her nose, sniffing, “Blood Lotus.”

“Ah,” said Alys, Helena’s timing was always excellent. He stared meaningfully at Rickon, “now isn’t that interesting.”

Rickon sighed and began to examine the bodies around him.

Satisfied that Rickon was doing what he should be, Alys knelt and tried to make sense of the mud around rift. Ferelden rain was many things, but helpful was not one of those things. Tracking was not his specialty, that’s what Helena was for but even he knew there would be great difficulty in deciphering this mess.

He watched the woman she followed the scorch marks back toward the rift, then beyond and stared up at the rock slope on the other side.

“Someone tried to escape up here,” she said as he stepped up beside her. “But it’s impossible to tell who or even how many with the rain.”

She examined an indent at the bottom of the slope.

“There may have been a tussle here,” she said. She bent down to pick up something. It was the broken shaft of an arrow. She offered it to him silently.

“Perhaps he was hit,” Alys mused.

“Unlike him to leave something behind,” commented Helena. Alys agreed, but then again, even Stroud could make mistakes. He slipped it into his pocket.

Helena bent down to examine the mud again. After a moment, she sighed and looked up at him from beneath hooded brown eyes.

“I can’t give you a good answer,” she said. “There’s been too much movement here, and the rain’s washed most of what was away. He could have run off in any direction.”

Alys ran a hand over his chin. He glanced around. Rickon was rifling through one of the bandit’s packs. Alys scoffed, even the sanctimonious Rickon Breger was not above a spot of looting. Blighted hypocrite.

Helena hummed and stood up. She walked toward the north, toward something that he could not see. There was a small dilapidated stone fence along the path.

Alys followed her. He had learned from experience that it was better to let Helena just do her work.

Ah,” she said, leaning over the stones. “Someone has moved from here, and recently.”

Alys looked over her shoulder. Sure enough, his eyes settled on the tell-tale signs of footprints leading to the north.

“It wouldn’t be him,” he said, glancing at Helena.

She shook her head.

“Too small,” she agreed. “And Stroud wouldn’t cower behind a wall for several hours, before moving on.”

“A survivor though,” Alys said. “They might know where he went.”

Helena gave him a sideways glance.

“For their sake, I hope so.”

Alys smirked; Helena always understood. He turned back to see what Rickon was doing. The man was rifling through more bodies. This time, the burnt man by the bridge.

“Never took you for a grave robber Rickon,” Alys drawled, his mood was beginning to pick up again. He sauntered over. “Something, something honour and all that. What would Ser Stroud say?”

Rickon glared up at him as he approached.

“I’m searching the area, as you ordered.” He straightened and proffered a hand. A ring sat in the centre of his palm. “I don’t think these are ordinary bandits.”

Alys took the ring from him and turned it over in his fingers. A finely carved eagle gleamed up at him from a ring of polished silver.

“Rather posh for a bandit,” he commented, looking up at Rickon.

Rickon nodded.

“That’s the crest of Ser Venar, he was a captain during the Second Invasion,” he explained. “If we’re as far south as we are, that means we’re probably in Crestwood.”

Alys cocked his head, peering at Rickon.

“I always forget you’re Ferelden.”

“I’m sure,” Rickon said dryly.

Alys smirked. No one could mistake Rickon’s gravelly accent and gloomy countenance to be descended from anything but a bunch of archaic tribal hicks.

Rickon cleared this throat. “Well, as I said, I don’t think these are ordinary bandits. If he’s got this, they might have a foothold in Caer Bronach.”

“A keep,” Alys shrugged, “what’s your point?”

“I just mean, it might pay to be wary,” Rickon explained as if he was talking to a 4-year-old. “If they do, and they somehow associate this mess with us, we might have more problems than just finding Jean.”

“I know how to make allies Rickon,” Alys said. “A dare sight better than you I might point out.”

Rickon let out an irritated huff.

“Fine,” he snapped, stepping past Alys. “Just don’t get us killed.”

Alys watched him walk away.

“As if I would ever want to see you killed Rickon,” he said. “And here I thought we were becoming friends.”

Helena snorted. Rickon sighed.

“Let’s just find this survivor.”

“Have you searched everything?”

Rickon glanced back at him, a contemptuous expression on his face.

“It’s all burnt to a crisp,” he said. “But please, feel free to get your hands dirty.”

Alys rolled his eyes. Rickon could be so insufferably sanctimonious. Alys was the leader, he had been chosen by Lord Erimond himself. He didn’t need to get his hands dirty if he didn’t feel like it. That was what a grunt like Rickon was for.

With a scowl, he looked around. What the man said was true enough, there was unlikely to be anything here of interest and annoyingly he was right. Alys was not inclined to go messing up his hands with burned flesh. Instead, he looked to where Helena and Rickon were now standing waiting for him. The thing of interest was currently to the north. He felt the whisper of fade energy crackle once more at his fingertips. With any luck, they would catch up with it before lunch time.

* * *

It took less than an hour to track down the survivor. He turned out to be a rather pathetic looking boy, covered in mud and clutching an arm that appeared to be dislocated. It had taken him an appallingly long time to realize he was being followed. But then again, they were in Ferelden. The boy’s eyes widened when he finally glanced over his shoulder and saw them following him.

Alys raised a hand and waved.

“Well met,” he said.

The boy’s brow furrowed, and he stopped, glancing about as if expecting to be accosted from the rocks. From the nervous look he was giving them, Alys wondered for a moment if the boy was expecting them to attack him. An overblown reaction to a trio of Wardens, but he supposed the boy was one arm down.

“Do I look well?” The boy said after a moment, his expression turning sour

Alys smiled. It was always more fun when they had an attitude.

“Fair point,” he conceded. He stopped a few meters in front of the boy and looked him over. “Seems you got caught in a bit of trouble.”

The boy narrowed his eyes.

“Might’ve,” he said, “what’s it to you?”

Alys didn’t miss the way he glanced over their armour, his eyes lingering on the griffin embossed into the front of Rickon’s breastplate. Alys gestured toward Helena and Rickon.

“Me and my friends here have just come from the south,” he said, “came across the remnants of a bit of a battle. Seemed like some bandits ran themselves afoul of a fade rift.”

The boy glanced nervously between the three of them.

“I don’t know nothing about it, if that’s what you’re trying to ask Mister Warden,” he said firmly. “I’m just a simple kings courier, I don’t know nothing.”

Alys smiled.

“You don’t look like a courier,” interjected Rickon, frowning up and down at the boy.

The boy scowled over at the warrior.

“And what’s a courier supposed to look like, huh? Like you?”

“Well, I’d start with actually having something to courier,” Rickon said, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve no bag, no traveling supplies of any kind. Maybe you’re one of the bandits.”

The boy looked scandalized.

“I’m not a bandit!” he snapped, “I lost my bag because they took it! They captured me! I’m a victim!”

Alys stepped between the two, holding his hands aloft. He enjoyed the way Rickon almost always inadvertently played into his facades. It made things a lot easier.

“Now now,” he said, directing a look of chastisement toward Rickon before looking back at the boy, “I apologize for my friend, he’s a little rough around the edges. Why don’t we start again? What’s your name lad?”

The boy glared at Rickon for another moment, before looking back at Alys.

“Killan,” he answered, “Killan of Denherim.”

Alys whistled.

“From the capital,” he said, “and you said you were a courier for the king? Impressive.”

Predictably, the boy puffed out his chest. He directed another long, sideways glance at Rickon. The warrior shook his head in disbelief. Alys wasn’t sure if it was at his blatantly transparent flattery, or the fact that the boy had fallen for it.

“That’s right.”

Alys hummed.

“You must be quite the candidate Killan,” he said, “to be sent into a dangerous area such as this.”

The boy grimaced for just a split second suggesting that he wasn’t particularly happy to be sent into a dangerous place like this. Alys could hardly blame him, he wasn’t particularly happy about Stroud’s choice of hiding place either. The expression only lasted for a moment though before boy’s face settled with a grim determination.

“Well, someone has to do it,” he said, straightening. “Messages don’t deliver themselves, and I’m very good at it.”

“Indeed,” Alys nodded. He directed the boy to sit on a nearby rock. “Come, you look tired. Sit down for a moment. I’d like to ask you some questions, would that be okay?”

Killan looked at him suspiciously.

“What kind of questions?” He said. “I’m already late as it is, and like I say, I don’t know nothing.”

Alys shrugged.

“We’re new to the area, and I just thought a clever, experienced lad such as yourself might be able to help us with where we need to get to.” He gestured to the boy’s shoulder. “In return I may be able to help you with that little injury you have there, could get you where you need to go a bit quicker eh?” He procured a small vial of healing potion from his pouch and waggled it in front of the boy’s nose.

The boy’s eyes followed the vial closely.

“Okay,” he said, plopping himself down on the rock, “I’m very good with directions, no one knows Crestwood better than me.”

Alys smiled. He nodded to Helena who reached into her pack and handed the boy a waterskin. The boy gave it a sniff, then, apparently satisfied, he slurped greedily from the neck.

“Now,” Alys said, threading his fingers together. “Tell me about where we are, what is the easiest passage to the west?”

The boy frowned, becoming thoughtful and serious.

“Well, you’d need to circumvent the lake,” he said,” there’s not really a direct passage west from here, especially with the dragon set up camp south of the dam.”

Alys nodded, ignoring Rickon’s exclamation of ‘Maker’s breath’, it was as if the man had never heard of a dragon before. A dragon was good, if it hadn’t burned Stroud to a crisp.

“So, you would have to travel north first?”

The boy nodded.

“Yeah, only way through is north,” he confirmed, “through the village and then up past the north gate.”

“What about off the roads?”

The boy’s face contorted into distaste.

“There’s ways around, off the road I suppose,” he said slowly, “but they’re too wild to be safe. Crestwood’s know for Wyverns and the like.”

Alys hummed.

“And to the east?”

“You’d have to go through the north gate as well,” said the boy, “the way is too steep around the East Side Hills, unless you went across the ponds, but there’s no boats round there anymore.”

Krenn frowned. If there was water to the east, he wouldn’t put it past Stroud to double back, like he had at Highever. Without a boat though, Stroud wasn’t that desperate.

“And what about this Caer Bronach, are we near?”

The boy nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. He squinted up at the sun peeking out pathetically from behind the clouds. “Reckon it might be about 3 miles west from here, not too far”

“Is it easy passage?” Alys asked.

The boy’s eyes widened in alarm.

“You want to go to Caer Bronach?” He spluttered, looking between them all in shock.

Alys raised an eyebrow.

“I assume that is where the Bann of this area resides?”

The boy shook his head.

“No, no, you got it all wrong. There’s no Bann in Crestwood, just a mayor at the village. Village is also called Crestwood, just so you don’t get confused. The Highwaymen control Caer Bronach, and believe me, you don’t want to get on the wrong side of them. They’re the ones that caught me!”

Alys schooled his face into a sympathetic expression.

“You were caught?”

The boy looked at him with disbelief.

“You think I did this to myself?” he said, gesturing awkwardly to his dislocated arm.

“I could fix that for you,” said Helena softly from Alys’ side.

Alys glanced sideways at her.

The boy stared at her, he opened his mouth, he seemed hesitant. Probably wise.

Alys shook his head, He liked Helena for many reasons, but she always managed to emanate an unsettling aura to those around her. He had tried to coach her out of it, but she had never seemed to shake it.

“You a healer?” he asked, glancing her up and down.

Helena shook her head.

“No.”

“I’ll wait for the potion then,” said the boy, furrowing his brows one last time before looking back at him.

“The thing about Crestwood,” he started with an air of authority that was quite frankly eye rolling, “is you gotta travel during the day because of the corpses at night, but during the day’s when the Highwaymen are all about. It’s kind of a no-win you know.” His air dropped for a moment. “Usually I’m more…conservative with my movements, but I guess I got a bit careless.”

Alys patted him on the arm.

“It happens,” he said sympathetically, “it is truly the Maker’s blessing that you managed to escape.”

“I suppose.”

Alys clenched his jaw for a moment. This boy had met Stroud, he was certain of this. Why be coy about it? For all he knew, they were friends of the man.

“All on your own no less.”

The boy opened his mouth to say something.

“Wait, Killan. Did you say something about corpses?”

Alys grit his teeth. He was almost certain the boy had been about to tell them something related to Stroud. He glared sideways at the warrior.

Rickon ignored him.

“Corpses,” the boy repeated inanely. “Yeah, that’s the other thing. Corpses started appearing around here maybe a few months back. Pretty dangerous but if you stay inside at night, usually it’s fine.”

Alys sucked at his teeth. This region certainly had a lot of ‘things’ going on for such a shithole.

“Usually?” pried Rickon.

“Well they’re corpses, aren’t they?” snapped the boy, narrowing his eyes at Rickon. “Do the corpses you know keep to a schedule?”

Rickon scowled and crossed his arms.

In another life, at another time, Alys could have seen himself enjoying this boy’s snarky attitude. It certainly was entertaining to watch Rickon scowl as he was dressed down by a teenager. But that was not why they were here, and every minute spent listening to this boy was a minute lost in the search for a greater prize.

“Yes, yes, walking dead, very dangerous,” Alys said, waving his hand. “But I’m more interested in how you- a fine figure of a lad to be sure- but just a single boy, managed to escape the clutches of a bandit party.”

The boy pursed his lips, looking between Alys and Rickon for a moment. Alys wondered what Stroud must have said that was weighing on the boy’s mind so heavily, enough that he seemed unwilling to say anything on the matter. Alys couldn’t imagine the ever-righteous Stroud being threatening toward a child, but then again, the man was under an immense amount of pressure.

“Well,” the boy began, his gaze again lingering on the griffin on Rickon’s breastplate. “There was a man, a Warden like you.”

“A Warden?”

The boy nodded again.

“Yeah, he helped me,” he looked away for a moment, a little ashamedly. It was guilt, Alys realized, not fear. The boy felt guilty for some reason. That was why he was hesitating. Which also meant that the boy had his suspicions of them, of why they were interested.

“Do you know where he went?”

The boy narrowed his eyes.

“Friend of yours?”

Alys decided to change his tact.

“Yes,” he said easily. He cocked his head at the boy. “Look, I’m going to level with you Killan. We Wardens don’t really like talking about our missions, but I think I can trust you. That man you helped, well he’s gotten into some trouble and we need to find him so we can help him sort out his trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“Yes, trouble,” he said with a solemn nod. “We were attacked by darkspawn several days back, separated. We we’re meant to meet up on Lake Calenhad, but I think we all got a bit lost, what with all the fog around here.”

The boy’s eyes widened and Alys knew he was just hooked enough. He smiled and tried to imagine being stupid enough to be so unfathomably trusting. No wonder the fool had been caught.

“He went to the village,” said the boy, pointing north

“You saw him go?”

The boy nodded.

“Disappeared in a hurry, he got hit pretty badly by Reynor,” he said.

“Who’s Reynor?”

Alys shot Rickon another look.

“He’s one of the bandit leaders,” said the boy, “real mean. He’s the one that caught me. Likes to shoot people.”

Alys nodded.

“Well he’s dead now.”

“Really?” the boy’s eyes lit up in amazement, “your friend got him then?”

Alys nodded.

“More or less,” he said. “He got hit you say, how badly are we talking?”

The boy hummed, his mouth twisting in thought.

“Reynor’s a good shot,” he said after a moment, “I think it was in the shoulder, he’s lucky he isn’t dead.”

“Yet another blessing,” said Alys, “right or left?”

The boy’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Err,” he said, “left I think, I don’t know.”

“And you think he went to the village?”

The boy nodded.

“Told me not to follow him, but I mean what am I supposed to do? That’s where I gotta go and I waited a long while like he said.”

Alys waved a hand.

“Don’t trouble yourself with Warden Stroud,” he said. “He’s grumpy like my friend here, he probably didn’t want to attract any more trouble - corpses, and the like, as you said.”

The boy’s eyebrows furrowed in thought. After a moment he nodded.

“Yeah, suppose that makes sense,” he said.

Alys nodded.

“Did he say anything else to you?”

The boy’s brows furrowed again.

“He was angry with me, that’s all.” He said. He looked a little upset and frowned. “It was my fault he got hurt I think.”

He looked up at Alys and the others, his brows pulled upward in perhaps the most pathetically earnest expression Alys had ever witnessed.

“You’re going to help him, right?”

Alys knelt so that he was face to face with the boy. He looked about 15 summers, boyish features, boyish brown hair. The entire image was amusing. He could easily imagine Stroud, with his misguided sense of honour, helping this boy. But one look at his face spoke volumes about how that had gone. Alys wouldn’t have even needed to see the destruction at the rift to know that. Times must have been desperate if King Theirin was sending out snotty-nosed children to courier in his realm. And now the boy knew about them and knew about the rift and knew about Stroud. And well, he couldn’t have that.

“I’m going to let you in on a little secret Killan,” he said.

The boy blinked; his brows furrowed.

“What?”

Alys leaned in closer, close enough that he could smell the boy’s sweat. Energy crackled at his fingertips.

“We are not going to help Stroud,” he said lowly, “we are going to hunt him down like the dog he is and kill him, and I need you to understand, just for this short moment, that part of that is on you.”

The boy’s eyes widened in realization. Fear and guilt etched their way into his brow, and just for a moment he looked like he was about to cry.

Alys nodded at Helena.

She stepped forward and in one smooth motion ran a dagger across the boy’s throat.

Rickon looked away in disgust.

The boy gurgled as he slumped over, into the mud.

Alys dusted off his hands and stood. Some of the blood had splattered onto his boots. He shot a glare at Helena.

She shrugged.

He sighed and put his health vial back in his pouch.

“I suppose we make for Crestwood then?” said Rickon. His eyes were now fixed on Alys, hard and cold, but ultimately harmless.

“There is no chance he’s there,” said Helena, now watching intently as blood began to pool around the boy’s body, “is there?”

Alys shook his head.

Stroud would never have told the boy where he was headed, nor given him any indication of where he might have gone. And yet, what were the options? The boy might not have told them anything about where Stroud was, but he had told them enough about where they were.

He felt invigorated. It was a little vulgar to feel so energized after murdering a child perhaps, but no one had to know. He had kept his magic in check, and Helena had been efficient as always.

“We should make for the village anyway,” he said. He fingered the arrow shaft that was in his pocket. A simple thing like that would not have slowed down the likes of Stroud, but it comforted him to know the man was bleeding. “He won’t be there, but I believe what the boy has told us; he would have to pass through the bottleneck. Someone will have seen him.”

He looked between his two companions and suddenly felt very cheerful.

“It’s our best lead.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason this chapter was hard to get to a good point (probably because there's a lot of characters and information to introduce), but in the end I just figured i'd post it as-is.
> 
> Specific TW for surgical procedures and blood
> 
> Final POV character too

Judith Prior had heard great number of foolish words come from Gregory Dedrick’s mouth, but the utterance of “we don’t need help,” was probably his most idiotic.

She glanced over at Gauld, who looked back at her with an exasperated expression.

It was nearing mid afternoon and they were were gathered in Dedrick’s house in Crestwood village. Dedrick had not asked them to meet with him, and Judith had not imagined that this is where she would end up when she set out hours before, but Gauld was at the peak of one of his crusades and that meant assailing the mayor until they both got tired of each other. Judith had somehow managed to find herself commandeered to come along for moral support. What support, moral or otherwise, Gauld thought she was going to be able to offer was unknown. Judith had never known Dedrick to listen to her. All she wanted was to drop off Vaughn’s poultices and find out if Killan had arrived. The boy was 3 days late, probably dead and she was running out of materials and time.

“I don’t think we have a choice Gregory,” Gauld said, “we’re at the end of our tether here. Vaughn’s up to her ears with people to look after, George’s manning a gate with one arm! If the Highwaymen or the corpses were to raid…”

“The Highwaymen won’t raid,” Dedrick said, his dark eyes leveled at Gauld, “they know well enough to leave the village alone.”

Gauld’s lip curled. He narrowed his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t realize you were in such communication with them.”

Judith ignored the glance Dedrick sent her way.

“They need the village as a way point for travelers,” he said, his eyes lingering on her, “if there’s no travelers, they have no quarry.”

Gauld threw his hands up.

“So we lure unsuspecting travelers into their doom?” he exclaimed, “what an excellent approach Gregory. Then we can _all_ be miserable and dead.”

Dedrick crossed his arms, he raised an eyebrow.

“And I suppose you’re plan is to launch a suicide assault on the Caer is it?” He snapped. “Go scoring the countryside for corpses? What exactly is it you think I should do Gauld?”

“Ask for help!” exclaimed Gauld, “It’s not hard.”

“And who would I ask?” said Dedrick, his voice tight. “The King? The Inquisition? Nobody gives two shits about us Gauld, they didn’t during the Blight, they won’t now.”

There was a moment of silence. Gauld let out a sharp huff of frustration. He turned to look meaningfully at Judith.

She sighed.

The situation in Crestwood had been steadily deteriorating for months. While they were not yet inundated with apostates and templars skirmishing in the hills, the coup at the Circle Tower had bled a particular kind of chaos into the neighboring regions. Innes, the leader of the Highwaymen, was a smart man beneath his burly exterior. It hadn’t been much of a shock, at least to her, that he had taken advantage of the lack of order.

The chaos has been exacerbated by the rifts appearing overnight, spewing demons if you so much as looked at them. The one that had appeared in the lake, the biggest, cast a sickly glow across the water that seemed to penetrate into the very stone of the land. Since then the countryside had become overrun with the undead. Gruesome shadows of people who preyed on the anyone hapless enough to be caught by surprise in the ever present fog.

Judith could understand Gauld’s frustration. It was hard not to feel like some kind of pawn in a greater power’s game. But Dedrick was right; nobody of consequence cared about some tiny Ferelden hamlet with nothing to offer. In the better times they had provided trade and warm beds, now there was nothing except death and mildew.

“Dedrick’s right,” she said, leaning her hand on the back of a nearby chair. She stared down Gauld’s look of complete betrayal before looking back at Dedrick.

He was watching her with a neutral look on his face.

“But so is Gauld.” She said. “It’s too much for us to manage alone anymore. The Highwaymen may operate on logic to some degree but do you really want to gamble with the corpses, or the demons? We need help from someone that has resources to deal with them.”

Dedrick looked at her for a moment.

“Curious that,” he said, “coming from you.”

Judith cocked her head at him.

“What exactly are you implying?”

Dedrick raised an eyebrow, but after a glance at Gauld who was looking between them with suspicion, he said nothing and shrugged.

Judith took her hand off the chair and rubbed her nose. Maker, she was exhausted.

“Look, even if the Highwaymen leave us alone, how long do you think we can survive without trade?” she said, “the Guild almost refused to send Killan in the first place and now he’s bloody late. If we get on their blacklist, you know that’s a death knell. We won’t be able to get anything anymore.”

“Killan is late?” Gauld interjected, his eyes wide, looking between Dedrick and Judith. When neither of them said anything they narrowed. “How long has he been expected?”

Judith pursed her lips. Gauld reaction would imply an answer to her question; Killan had still not arrived.

“3 days,” she said, a sense of dread settling in the pit of her stoamach.

“3 days!” Gauld threw up his hands before casting an accusatory finger at Dedrick. “That boy is almost certainly dead because of your inaction,” he said. “This never would have happened if you’d bloody asked someone for help!”

Dedrick’s face contorted into an angry snarl.

“I cannot be held responsible for the actions of bandits, or copses, or demons,” he snapped, his eyes flicking between the two of them. “I know you both think I revel in doing bugger-all, but I have, in fact, been in contact with Bann Loren.”

He rummaged around in his desk drawer and pulled out a small stack of parchments. Even from across the room, Judith could see that they were all stamped with Loren’s seal. Dedrick tossed the papers onto his desk. The action was aggressive, but the paper was so light that it just slapped against the table a bit pathetically.

Gauld stepped closer and picked up one of the letters to read. After a moment, he looked up at Dedrick who was regarding him with a look of expectant irritation.

“He won’t help us,” Gauld said.

“Indeed,” said Dedrick, his face drawn long, “and that not exactly something I want to advertise to everyone else. So perhaps you can stop stirring up accusations?”

Judith furrowed her brow and grabbed the letter from Gauld’s hand.

_…the Bann is indisposed to help at this time._

It was an odd kind of reply. Bann Loren was not known to be particularly generous with his time, money or resources, but an outright rejection seemed strange. Perhaps there was trouble at Caer Oswin too. She felt a renewed stab of hopelessness tug at the edges of her thoughts.

“Okay so the Bann will do nothing,” Gauld said, his voice edged with hysteria, ”then ask the King. Hell, ask the Inquisition! There’s a bloody great rift out in the lake, bloody great rifts is their specialty from what I’ve heard.”

“The King won’t send anyone without Loren’s initiating it,” Dedrick said, “you know how they work. And I’m not inviting those heretics here. Mages are what started all this, and I’m not making deals with a group that thinks it pertinent to align themselves with those abominations in the circle tower.”

“I hardly think we’re in a position to dictate terms,” Judith said, with a raised eyebrow. She agreed that the King wouldn’t intervene unless the request came from Loren or Caer Oswin. The Inquisition though, they might have allied themselves with the Mage’s at Redcliffe, but Judith wasn’t above doing deals with Mages. Not if it meant things got better.

“We don’t need more problems,” Dedrick said narrowing his eyes at her, his tone final. “There’s already a magnitude without apostates skulking about in the smuggler caves.”

Judith sighed and glanced at Gauld.

“Look, I don’t think anyone wants the Inquisition here, but the longer we wait the worse it will get. Food, weapons, basic herbs. Hell, we won’t be able to send for supplies from Denhirim anymore if Killan’s dead. People will die if we do nothing, the Inquisition can hardly be worse than this.”

Dedrick pursed his lips. Judith knew that he knew that they were right, as much as she knew it pained him to admit it. It all really depended on if he was desperate enough yet, and that was the kicker really. Dedrick had to be really desperate to do anything significant.

A loud shout cut through the tense atmosphere.

There was silence for a moment. Then the warning bell began to sound loudly. Judith looked across at Gauld. His face had gone white. Dedrick had reached for his sword belt.

Judith set her jaw and turned to Gauld.

“Alert Vaughn,” she said, “there might be injuries.”

He nodded. He had never been good with a sword, but he was good in a crisis. She didn’t say anything to Dedrick, he was already leading the way out the door. For all his shortcomings, he didn’t cower from a fight.

Judith followed Dedrick outside. The drizzle that had accompanied her into town was developing into true rain making it hard to see well. They jogged down the path through the center of the village, stopping up short as they approached the gate. The gatekeeper, George, was crouched over something, his arm still in a sling. He had fractured it parrying a blow from a corpse the week before. He held his sword unsteadily in the other. A pair of adults hovered anxiously nearby, a woman and a man. They looked like travelers, from Orlais going by their dress. There appeared to be no corpses in sight.

“What’s happened?” Dedrick demanded, stopping up in front of the scene.

George turned and looked up at them both. Judith gasped when she saw what he was crouching over.

A young girl was lying in the mud. An arrow with cruel black fletching was sticking out of her thigh. A corpse arrow.

“We were attacked!” exclaimed the woman with a high pitched Orlesian accent, her grimy face contorted into fear. “The corpses came out of nowhere! They hit Arabella with the arrow-”

She let out a whimper and covered her face with her hands. The man placed an arm around her.

“We followed the path to your village. Please,” hes implored, his accent Ferelden. He looked between them desperately, “you have to help her.”

Judith knelt down beside George. The girl was alive, but she had lost a lot of blood. The arrow had hit high on her left thigh. Judith grimaced. Going by the amount of blood on her dress, there was a chance it had hit an artery. She could be dead before Judith could do a single thing.

“How long since she was shot?” she asked.

The man wringed his hands.

“I don’t know, maybe 10 minutes ago.”

Judith grimaced. The girl would have bled out already if that was the case, but there was an abnormal amount of blood especially since the arrow was still lodged in the muscle.

“We have to get her to the chantry. Out of the rain. Now.” She said, looking up at Dedrick, “I can treat her there.”

Dedrick nodded at her, his expression grim. She knew what he was thinking; the corpses were getting more brazen. Usually, they didn’t appear until after nightfall. It was barely past lunchtime.

Dedrick turned back toward the two adults.

“Were you followed?” he said.

They looked at each other.

“I don’t know,” said the man, his voice small and fearful. “Maybe.”

Dedrick made a dark, thoughtful noise. He turned toward George and some other villagers who had turned up in response to the bell.

“On alert,” he said, “One group behind the outer barricades. George and the rest of you, man the gatehouse.”

Judith stood up and nodded at the man.

“Can you carry her?” she asked. He looked sturdy enough, if a bit slight.

The man nodded and knelt down to pick up the girl. Judith turned toward George, catching his good arm quickly, before he could run away. She unhooked her grenade pouch from her belt.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the bag into his hands, “take these. Just in case.”

George’s frowned for a moment. Despite everything, his eyes lit up when he realized what she’d given him.

“Are these?”

Judith nodded.

“I finessed the recipe,” she said, “they are still volatile, so stay sharp, but they are more stable than the others. The fire should keep the corpses at bay. There’s some flash grenades too.”

Judith had been working on the recipe for some time. It had been developed from one of Reynor’s horrible poisons and a lot of explosive, flammable compounds. A dangerous mix, but it worked especially well on the undead. She tried not to think about how unstable they were, or the fact that without Killan, they were the last ones she would be able to give him. Perhaps ever, depending on how long they all stayed alive.

George laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Thankyou,” he said, before turning quickly and gesturing at some of the others to form a group by the gate.

Judith watched him go for just a moment. She prayed that the travelers had not been followed, or attracted more attention. After a moment, she turned and directed the man down the path through the village. Crestwood was not large but the sobbing sounds that the woman was making made every foot feel like a mile. Vaughn's chantry was right at the back of the village, just before the track that led to the Memorial for the Drowned. The slimy statue loomed over the village like a dark, damp ode to what was gone.

Judith tried to ignore it’s crushing presence, the presence she always felt when visiting Crestwood. It was an unease, a nausea that would not go away. She felt it now, even as the pressure of the slowly dying girl folded over her, demanded her practical attention. She grit her teeth and swung open the chantry door without knocking gesturing the couple inside quickly.

Vaughn looked up in alarm, half way between filling a large cauldron with water. Gauld was standing nearby calming his son Reuben. The child stared at them with wide eyes. Gauld took one look at the girl in the man’s arms and ushered his son into a neighboring room.

“We need a bed,” Judith said quickly. “Boiling water, twigs, clean rags now.”

Vaughn nodded and pointed them over to a cot near the fireplace.

The man laid the girl down and the sheets beneath her immediately started staining red.

Judith moved him aside, removing her satchel from around her shoulders. It was a good thing she had brought a new batch of poultices for Vaughn. The clay pots clacked together as she placed the bag on the floor. She knelt and cut away the bloodied fabric from the girl’s thigh with her dirk. Taking a strip of it, she she wound it tightly around the top of the girl’s thigh. Judith felt around the wound gently. The arrow had not passed clean through, which meant it had likely hit her bone.

Judith grimaced. She glanced at Vaugh as the dark haired chantry sister placed a large bucket of steaming water and a pile of small twigs beside her.

Vaughn’s green eyes examined the unconscious girl.

“There’s a lot of blood,” she said softly, handing her a selection of clean rags. “Do you think it hit something important?”

“I don’t think so,” Judith said, the bone was important, but not urgent. She looked up at the parents, “did you try to pull it out?”

The man nodded.

“Yes, immediately,” he explained. His agitation was beginning to spill over into impatience. “It wouldn’t come.”

Judith frowned. That would explain why there was so much blood. She untied the laces to her bag and drew out a selection of pots. She would need something antiseptic before anything else. “Here, heat these.”

She handed Vaugn her sharpest blade and a small pair of silver forceps.

Judith looked up, searching for Gauld. She knew he would come back to assist her, but Reuben could be hard to console sometimes. He appeared in the door.

“I need your hands,” she said.

He rushed forward and knelt down beside her.

“I’ll clean,” he said.

Judith nodded, unscrewing the lid from a jar of elfroot paste. She dipped a clean rag into the paste and wrapped it around a twig. Gauld dipped his own rag into the steaming water and began to clean around the wound.

“It hasn’t pierced the artery,” Judith said, “but I think it’s hit her bone. We need to remove it carefully.”

Gauld let out a noise of dismay and Judith felt much the same way. With a shattered femur Arabella could be crippled for life. Her parents might be able to pay for medical intervention, but by the time they would be able to leave, the damage would be done.

You couldn’t un-heal bad healing.

“Why can’t you just pull the blighted thing out?” asked the man, his voice rising with a hint of hysteria. Judith had been vaguely cognizant of him hovering over her shoulder since she had asked him about pulling it out, but his voice made her start a little.

“The barbs will cause more damage if we just pull it out, or the shaft might break off from the head,” she explained tersely, “if the head gets left behind, it will cause infection.”

“Oh,” the man said. He floundered for a moment, then began to pace. Judith was glad for the reprieve, she felt strained enough without him hovering over her.

Vaughn returned, a tray in her hands. Judith took the instruments from it.

“Make sure she stays unconscious,” Judith said quietly to Vaughn.

Vaugh’s frowned.

“What if she doesn’t” she said, “I have nothing left for pain, it’s all gone.”

Judith glanced at the girl’s face. She looked around 14 summers, maybe younger. By all rights, far too young for any of this.

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice more even than the pit in her stomach made her feel, “I have nothing either.”

Vaughn watched her for a moment, then look over at the man.

“What’s her name?” she asked. “Your daughter.”

The man frowned.

“Arabella, I am Brook, and my wife Déborah.” He stepped forward once again. ”You must save her, please!”

Vaughn smiled. She placed a hand on Brook’s shoulder. Vaugh always had that ability to be kind while dealing with the worst of what life had to offer. Judith envied her sometimes for that.

“Judith will do everything she can,” Vaughn assured him, before looking over at Déborah. “But I need you to be prepared that Arabella may wake and need her parents by her side.

“I suspect the arrow has hit her bone,” Judith explained, looking back at them, “that alone will not kill her, but, as I say, we need to remove it carefully. If we nick her artery, she could bleed out. If she wakes and moves…”

She let the train of thought trail off. It was probably best not to explain the kind of agony Arabella would be in if she woke mid-surgery.

Déborah let out a sob.

Brook set his mouth into a grim line, he looked annoyed.

Judith stilled her hands and looked between the couple.

“She will not die from this,” she said evenly. “But I need you make sure she remains still.”

Brook nodded after a moment, and while Déborah looked like she was about to fall to pieces, she did too.

Judith turned back to Arabella and glanced sideways at Gauld. He looked nervous, but focused. He had helped her remove an arrow once before. His fingers were dexterous, and he was excellent at stitches. But that had been from a horse, this was a girl.

She probed the wound around the shaft with the forceps, using her knife to cut open the wound wide enough for Gauld to slide in the twigs she had wrapped. The elfroot would act as a antiseptic, the twigs would allow her precious vision on the arrow head. It was painstaking work but after some time, the wound was wide enough with twigs that she could see the glint of steel about 10 centimeters deep. There were chips of white surrounding it, the pinkish white of bone that was still part of a living body. She pursed her lips, her worst fears were confirmed.

Gauld sponged away at the blood pooling in the wound.

With the forceps, Judith carefully grasped the arrow head and pulled firmly. The barbs were thoroughly entrenched, but there was some give. She pressed the viscera away from the head with the knife, but it was not enough.

“Here,” she said to Gauld. She could feel sweat drip down the back of her neck. “Help me move the muscle back.”

Gauld placed the bloodied rag aside and picked up one of the twigs to widen the wound a little more. The extra space was almost enough and she felt the head begin to move.

The girl whimpered.

On instinct, Judith froze. The room was silent for a moment.

Then an anguished cry ripped itself from Arabella’s throat, far to loud it seemed for a girl so small. She began to thrash around. Judith released her grip on the arrow head for fear of knocking it about.

“Keep her still!” she cried.

Both parents had been shocked by Arabella’s awakening. Brook blinked but then lurched forward to hold down his daughter’s leg. Judith glanced up at him. His knuckles were as white as his face. There were tears in his disturbed eyes.

“For Maker’s sake, hurry!”

More sweat trickled down her forehead and beneath her collar. Judith grit her teeth. She glanced at Gauld, he was helping hold down the top of Arabella’s thigh.

Déborah was sobbing, clutching Arabella’s face with her hands, whispering to her in Orlesian.

Judith probed the forceps into the wound again. She needed to get this thing out. Arabella’s bleeding had quickened because of her movement. Without Gauld sponging away the blood, she couldn’t see where the head was. After a moment, she felt the forceps grip onto something hard and metallic. She tried to pull back, to see if she could move it at all. But the blood had made her grip slippery. She jerked backward, almost hitting herself in the face with the forceps. Gauld’s large hand landed on her shoulder, steadying her.

Arabella screamed again and again, her cries echoing around the small room. Déborah’s mutterings and Gualds curses and Brooks cries of Maker please pounded down upon her. Her heart thundered against her ribcage.

She desperately needed to gather herself.

A hand pressed down upon the gaping wound. Vaughn had stepped up beside her, a new rag pressed against the wound. They made eye contact and for an insane moment Judith imagined that it was her mother looking back at her, a determined smile on her face. Judith shook her head and grit her teeth. She turned her attention back to the wound. Thanks to Vaughn she could see the arrow head once more. She gripped it tightly, her knuckles white and pressed the knife against the viscera to make room. This time, she felt the head begin to move in earnest. After a moment that felt like an eternity, the head and the shaft in turn, popped out of the girl’s leg with a gruesome squelch.

Arabella let out a final, bone chilling scream. Her body went limp against the mattress, but her chest still heaved with breath.

The pain had rendered her unconscious.

The room was silent for a moment, except for the sounds of rain on the thatch outside.

Without the arrow to keep it at bay, blood began to pulse from the wound. It was not enough for a nicked artery. Small mercies.

Gauld took the rag from Vaughn to control the bleeding. He began to pluck out the wrapped twigs. Judith sat back on her heels. The arrow was still caught between the mouth of the forceps. She blinked and tossed them both aside. They clattered against the stone of the fireplace.

“When the bleeding slows, we need to stitch it up,” she said to Gauld, “I’ll prepare a needle and thread.”

Gauld nodded mutely. His collar was dark from sweat, his eyes a little empty.

Judith got to her feet slowly, suddenly aware of how stiff her limbs felt from having been kneeling for so long.

Déborah and Brook were still crouched over Arabelle. Déborah was patting Arabella’s hair, singing to her in soft Orlesian. It sounded soothing to Judith’s ears, like a lullaby.

Judith nodded once at Brook.

He stared at her a bit blankly, but there was a touch of hope there when they made eye contact.

She followed Vaughn over to the kitchen. The sister tossed the blood soaked rags into an empty cauldron.

Judith took the fire tongs from their hook. She unwrapped the rest of her surgical kit and held the needle over the flames until it was white hot.

“Do you have any lessers left?” she asked Vaughn, “I brought you new poultices, but nothing else.”

Vaughn rubbed at her eyes. Her hands, like Judith’s own, were stained red with the blood.

“I used the last one a few days ago,” she said, fetching down several mugs and began pouring hot tea from the fireplace. “There were more refugees from West Hill, two of them were deathly sick with fever.”

Judith nodded. It was the type of answer she had expected. The damp could be as dangerous as a blade. Healing potions were more flexible than poultices - you couldn’t apply a poultice to a disease - but they were harder to produce. Judith supposed that was the price of a supernatural acceleration of the healing process. She thought of the small stack of poisons she had back home. They had used almost the exact same ingredients as a modest amount of healing potion.

At the time, she had pushed aside the feeling of wrongness. After all, she had had to produce them. Innes had specifically asked for them. That was the price of protection. But at the time she had been banking on Killan’s delivery to replace what was lost. Now she just felt sick and a sense of vertigo from standing on the edge of the precipice of disaster. Everything seemed to be unraveling just because of that single boy. But perhaps it had always been that tenuous. Perhaps it was only now exposed for what it was; hopeless.

She looked over at the couple sitting on the bed.

Vaugh was handing them the mugs of tea and beckoning them over to the fire. Déborah seemed reluctant to leave Arabella, but the woman had started shivering uncontrollably. Brook ushered her over, smiling thinly at Vaughn.

Guilt settled over her like a heavy blanket, hot and scratchy. Arabella would need a potion within the week if her leg was to regain any use. Without one, she would be in pain her entire life. She would be a cripple.

Judith rubbed at her eyes, placing the needle on the stone by the fire.

It was all a bit too much, and she couldn’t help but feel it was all her fault. If she had planned better, bargained better, convinced Dedrick better, maybe Arabella wouldn’t be in such peril.

She walked back over to Gauld and handed him the surgical needle.

Judith watched as he tuned back to Arabella. His shoulders heaved, as if he was letting out a silent sigh.

“She has a good chance,” Judith said to him, “but it could easily turn bad. Make sure you keep her as clean as you can. I’ll make something up back home.”

Gauld paused and peered up at her again. For a moment Judith thought he would chastise her for wanting to leave so soon, instead he narrowed her eyes.

“You told me you ran out of Black Lotus,” he said. “In your last raven.”

“I have,” Judith said slowly.

Gauld's face fell.

“You cannot continue trading with them,” he said quietly, “not more than you already have. The more you do the more they will own you.”

Judith froze.

Gauld rolled his eyes.

“What, you didn’t think I’d realize you were trading with those thugs?” he said, his voice a little dark. “I’m not stupid Judith.”

“You’ve never mentioned it.”

“I thought you’d come to your senses,” Gauld said, finally turning back to Arabella’s leg and starting the process of closing the wound. “Evidently not.”

Judith let the comment hang for a few minutes. She didn’t really know how to justify herself to Gauld without it becoming a full blown argument.

“I don’t have a choice,” she said finally. “Arabella needs a potion and I need to get materials from somewhere.”

Gauld sighed, he would be hard-pressed to argue against that.  
“Look, just…try to be less reckless, okay?” he said. He paused for a moment. “There’s been Wardens around as well.”

Judith frowned.

“Wardens?”

“Three of them,” Gauld said as he worked, “came through this morning, looking for a defector or something. I didn’t speak to them, Dedrick did, but the defector’s meant to be dangerous.”

Judith pursed her lips. Wardens were a rare sight, and even rarer a good omen. She didn’t know a single person with a good opinion of Wardens, not after the Blight. It was hard to appreciate an Order that failed in it’s most basic duty to protect you. Her mother might still be alive if they had come. Anger crept up her spine. How dare they show their blighted faces now, on top of all things.

“Where are they now?” she asked.

Gauld shrugged.

“Left town,” he said. He finished the final stitch and tied the end in a neat knot. He turned round to look at her for a moment. “Don’t dwell on them Judith, they’ll pass through as they always do.”

“I don’t dwell,” Judith said, “you know that.”

Gauld raised a dark eyebrow and hummed incredulously.

“Yes,” he said, “not thinking has always been your specialty I suppose.”

Judith laughed dryly. She walked over to Vaughn’s medicine case and emptied the rest of the contents of her satchel into the shelves shelves. When the bag was empty, she slung it back over her shoulder.

“Look, as long as I don’t have to see, talk or hear them, everything will be fine.”

Brook walked over to them. He was looking calmer now that Arabella was stitched up and resting peacefully.

“You’re leaving?” he said, his brow pinched.

“I don’t live in the town,” Judith said, glancing out the window, “and I need to return to my homestead before nightfall.”

“But what if something goes wrong?” Déborah exclaimed, hurrying over, “If you hadn’t been here, Arabella would be dead, what if she needs you again?”

Judith looked into Déborah’s wide brown eyes for a moment before looking away quickly. The earnest tone in her voice ground guilt into her gut. She needed to help them and she only knew one way to help them.

“Arabella needs a healing potion more than anything else,” she said, “I cannot make one here. Sister Vaughn and Gauld are more than capable to take care of her while I’m away.”

It was a true enough statement, but Judith tried not to think about if Arabela developed an infection, or the pain she would be in each time she woke. She cleared the lump in her throat.

“When will you return then?” Brook said, he looked defeated.

Judith rubbed at her chin. She couldn’t really give a definite answer.

“I don’t know,” she said, “as soon as I can.

“Judith will return when she can,” Gauld assured Brook, “in the mean time we will look after your daughter.”

Neither Déborah, nor Brook looked satisfied, but after a moment Brook nodded. He gestured Déborah over to Arabella’s bed. Vaugh had begun cleaning up the bloodied sheets. She said something softly to Brook and together they moved Arabella onto another cot.

Judith watched for a moment before making her way over to the door.

Gauld followed her.

“Be safe,” he said as she placed a hand on the door handle, “and bloody update us with Erivon okay, i-they will want to know how you’re going.”

“I know,” she said. She looked up at him. “Just, you know, be patient okay?”

Gauld nodded. He looked like maybe he was going to say something else but he didn’t. He just drew up her hood for her and smiled sadly, something unreadable in his eyes.

“Maker’s speed Jude.”


End file.
